Changes in the Wind
by Laura Schiller
Summary: Esther deals with Lady Dedlock's death the only way she knows how: by blaming herself. It's up to Mr. Jarndyce to convince her otherwise.


Changes in the Wind

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Bleak House

Copyright: Charles Dickens' estate/BBC

"Esther?"

John Jarndyce tapped at the door, receiving no answer.

"Esther, please come out."

He placed his hand on the knob, hesitated, drew it back. The door was unlocked. He _could_ enter the room if he wanted; look into her face, read in her eyes how she was feeling, touch her if she needed it … but no. He would never have breached her privacy in that way even before their engagement, and he certainly would not do so now. Besides, after all she had suffered, anyone would need to be alone.

Still, after three days secluded in her room, seeing no one but Charley, he was beginning to be frightened.

"The wind is in the east tonight," he muttered.

She reminded him so much of his own past. After the death of his great-uncle, the only father he had ever known, John had locked himself away just like this. It had taken nothing less than Lawrence Boythorn, armed with a bucket of cold water and the fiercest of good intentions, to bring John back to the land of the living. Even now, he could feel the sudden wet chill that woke him up and hear Boythorn's remonstrations about wasting two lives instead of one. It made him shiver … and it gave him an idea.

Perhaps what Esther needed was a verbal bucket of cold water.

"Don't you think you're being rather selfish?" he asked.

Silence.

He hated using such an underhanded tactic. Nothing frightened Esther more than to be suspected of selfishness; if anything, she was too self-denying for her own good. At this point, however, he would say anything to get her to open that door.

"Not because you've stopped working. Heaven knows you earn all your holidays twice over. The servants manage pretty well without you, believe it or not. But you forget that Charley confides in me as well as you, and she tells me a mouse could not survive on what you've been eating. As your employer, as your guardian, as your – your _friend,_ I will not allow your mother's wasted life to ruin yours as well!"

He took a deep breath, startled by the sound of his own raised voice echoing down the hallway. He backed away from the door, as if the inanimate object were Esther's horrified face. He had gone too far this time, overstepped his bounds. She would never forgive him for this –

The door opened, and there Esther stood, glaring up at him with silent, burning rage.

She was thin and pale, clutching a long gray shawl around herself to disguise her nightgown. Her hair was an unwashed, unbound tangle of curls around her shoulders. But her mouth was set in that same stern line she had worn when evicting Harold Skimpole, and her red-rimmed eyes glittered with an almost feverish light.

"My mother _gave me life,_" she said, in a small, hard voice more powerful than a scream. "And I have brought her nothing but suffering. If not for me, she would be alive today. It would be better if I had never been born."

"Nonsense!" he snapped.

Forgetting to be patient, forgetting to be tactful, forgetting everything but his own infuriating helplessness to save his beloved from herself, he took two steps closer and blocked the doorway with his hands, staring down at her with a force to match her own.

"Did _you_ force your mother to marry Sir Leicester and keep her secret from him all these years? Did _you_ order that Smallweed fellow to blackmail them? Did _you_ drive Lady Dedlock out into the streets?"

Esther lowered her eyes.

"As I recall, you went out of your way to protect her secret. You might not even have told Ada or myself, had it not been for Sir Leicester's invitation. In fact, your only share in this tragedy was to exist – and _that_, despite what your estimable aunt may have told you, is most certainly not your fault."

Pity caught up with him then, seeing the way she huddled inside her shawl and looked down at her own slippers rather than meeting his eyes. Tom Jarndyce had been a kind-hearted man before the Court of Chancery caught up with him; after that he had been often melancholy, but never cruel. Young John had never been made to feel, as Esther did, that his existence was a sin against God, or that he would destroy the reputation of a noble house.

He could only imagine what she must be suffering.

"This young lady you speak of," he continued more softly, "This Esther Summerson … is very dear to me. I cannot allow her to be slandered in my presence, even by herself."

Very gently, he placed one finger beneath her chin and raised her head to his level. A smile crossed her face, the first he had seen in over a week; a fleeting, tired smile, but good enough for him.

"I can think of several people who would agree with me: Rick and Ada, Mr. and Mrs. Turveydrop, Mr. Woodcourt – " (She blushed; he pretended not to notice.) "Miss Flite, Sergeant George, Inspector Bucket, little Charley and her siblings, even that ridiculous little law clerk – what was his name? Mr. Guppy. So you see, my dear, there's a sizable amount of people whose lives are brighter for knowing you. Surely they can't _all_ be mistaken?"

In response to his levity, Esther's smile finally reached her eyes, even as they shone with a new flow of tears. She shook her head, made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob – and walked into her Guardian's waiting arms.

There was nothing the least romantic about it; she was crying, her hair tickled his nose, and it was apparent, even to him, that she could use a bath. And yet, he had never loved her more.

"Can you forgive me, Mr. Jarndyce?" was the first thing she said, once her throat and mind were clear enough for speech.

"Forgive you? Whatever for?"

"For being selfish, as you said. I did not realize how worried you must be. I only stayed away because I did not wish to burden you with all this – this – " She gestured wildly, referring to the toxic blend of self-pity, self-loathing, anger and shame mixed into her grief for Lady Dedlock.

"Burden me, Esther," he replied. "I insist. Scream at me, ruin my clothes, use me for target practice – anything rather than shutting me out."

"And if I do, shall I be accused of talking nonsense?" She raised her eyebrows at him with a faint tone of reproach, remembering his loss of temper only moments before.

"Only if you insult my little housekeeper again."

Esther actually laughed, and it was as if a candle had been lit inside his soul.

"Thank you ..." She wiped her eyes on one corner of her shawl, startled when he offered her a handkerchief instead, and took it with a nod. "Thank you. For everything."

He knew better than to believe she would be perfectly happy after this. There would still be black moods, loaded silences, arguments and tears; there would be a long road for her to travel out of the forest of her childhood, and he would follow her every step of the way. But he hoped that today was a step in the right direction, and he prayed that, from now on, she would learn to trust him.

"Has the wind changed, Guardian?"

"Oh yes," said John, watching the trees swaying outside Esther's window. "Yes … I believe it's from the south."


End file.
